Instinct
by nrynmrth
Summary: Alex Rider has settled into his role as an official MI6 agent, complete with benefits. He's managed to keep his profession separate from his school life so far, but that all goes down the drain when a familiar face appears at an assembly on human biology with one goal - capture Alex Rider. Rated for language and violence. A threeshot.
1. A (Very, Very) Bad Feeling

Alex had a feeling that something was wrong. Not as in 'oh my god I forgot to study for my European history test' wrong—as in 'oh my god I think there are assassins in my school here to kill me' wrong. Which, for any normal person, would be very, very, _very_ wrong…but then again, Alex Rider was not a normal person. One could say that he was so far from normal, in fact, that he was on a level with an alien—an _alien._ Anyway, back to the story. Alex Rider had a feeling that something was wrong. It had started the moment he walked into the modern, impersonal lobby of Brookland Comprehensive, just as he would on any other Thursday—when he was not on a mission, that is—a twinge, in the back of his mind, and a vague feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Both of which could have been attributed to the fact that yes, he _had_ forgotten to study for his European history test—except that his instinct was telling him that this was different. And Alex knew better than to ignore his instinct—it was one of the things he could rely on to keep him in the condition he preferred: alive.

Alex immediately went into what Tom called his 'spy-mode.' His eyes shifted almost imperceptibly from side to side, taking in all possible threats and exits. His footsteps, already quiet for a student, became nearly silent. His movements were that much more lithe and graceful, with no energy wasted on unnecessary motion as he made his way through the halls on his way to first period.

A hand grasped his elbow, and, in his state of heightened awareness, it was all Alex could do to refrain from spinning on his heel and twisting the offending wrist up behind his attackers back. He was grateful for his self-control, however, when he turned and came face to face with his best friend. Tom Harris was a small-ish boy with a personality to make up for his size. His black hair stuck out in every direction, falling carelessly into a pair of electric blue eyes. In short, he was everything that Alex was not—and the taller boy loved him for it. Tom was also one of the few civilians in Alex's life who actually knew what occurred during his absences, and the fact that he stuck by Alex anyway had forged an unshakeable bond between the two. That didn't, however, prevent Alex from glaring down at his best friend and hissing,

"Tom! What the hell were you thinking, grabbing my shoulder like that? I was _this_ close to grabbing your wrist and breaking your arm!"

The other boy had the grace to look ashamed. "Sorry, Alex."

Alex sighed. "It's fine, Tom. Just—be careful, all right?

The moment Alex had forgiven him, Tom had brightened, his trademark grin stretching across his face. "Did you hear the announcement, mate? There's an assembly first period. Quimby's test is cancelled!" He whooped with joy. "Should have seen the old bat's face when they announced it during homeroom this morning—some sort of science assembly, instead. Mandatory attendance—hey, what's up?"

The moment Tom had mentioned an assembly, Alex had frozen. The feeling of dread in his stomach had suddenly intensified, threatening to crawl up his throat and choke him. He shook his head—and then sighed, as Tom continued to look at him appraisingly.

"My instincts went haywire the moment I stepped into the building, and again when you mentioned an assembly—I don't know if it's because of the thought of nearly 2,000 civilians packed into a single theatre, or if I'm just being paranoid, but I've got the feeling that something isn't right…"

Tom frowned. "Is it—you know—your _spy_ instinct?" he asked, his voice low.

Alex nodded, brows knitting. "I haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary, yet, but this feeling just won't go away…"

Tom shot a worried glance at his friend. "Maybe you shouldn't go, then, if you're that sure that something's going to happen—"

But Alex was already shaking his head. "If something does happen, then I'm the only chance for survival that you all have got. Chances are, whoever it is will be after me, and they won't bother with the 2,000 odd civilians in the room, but I'd rather not risk it."

Tom nodded. "All right, Alex, but be careful, please—you're my best friend, and I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

Alex's bark of laughter was sharp and cynical. "Bit late for that, mate—I'm a sixteen year old spy who's been working for MI6 since the age of fourteen."

"True enough," Tom agreed, smiling slightly. "Shall we?" he asked the taller boy, offering his arm gallantly.

Alex, laughing slightly, elbowed his friend in the ribs and then strode off in the direction of the auditorium, Tom at his heels. Upon entering the theatre, he began his customary scan of all threats and possible exits, ignoring Tom's chatter. His instinct could not be ignored, and so Alex leaned down to murmur into Tom's ear.

"Sit at the back—view of the entire theatre and eyes on all exits."

Tom nodded in acknowledgement, and the two boys made their way to the last row of seats, which typically remained empty during assemblies, as it was where the headmaster of Brookland chose to seat himself. Today, however, Mr. Bray was joined by two of the most infamous students at Brookland—Alex Rider, the enigma, and his best friend Tom Harris.

Alex himself sat in the aisle seat, from which he had eyes on every entrance and exit to and from the auditorium. His eyes roved over rows upon rows of chattering students, identifying and examining each before moving on to the next. His entire body was taut with nerves, and Tom could almost feel the tension radiating from his friend's body.

"Alex?" he whispered softly, worried for his friend.

"Yes, Tom?" The boy in question replied equally softly, his eyes never halting their examination.

"Is—is everything all right?"

Alex turned to his best friend, a reassuring smile on his face. "Of course, Tom. I just—don't have a great feeling about this assembly. There is nothing to worry about. But, for both my sake and yours, I'll give you this—it sends a distress signal to 'the bank.'" He reached into the backpack by his feet and pulled out a graphing calculator. "Smithers made it for me," he said, referring to the gadget master at MI6. "Press alpha-M, alpha-I, and then the number 6, hit enter, and you'll open a direct connection with the head of MI6, Mrs. Jones. Tell her about the situation and try to describe it as best you can. She should send backup within the hour, half-hour if we're lucky."

Tom nodded, relief evident on his face. "Wait—I thought you said the head's name was something else. Mr. Burnt? Bentley?"

"Ah. Blunt. He's retired—can't say I'm sorry to see him go. Jones is much more—humane, some how. Less grey." He smiled at Tom, then turned his attention to the front of the stage, just as Mr. Bray stepped onto it.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, students and staff. As I'm sure you have noticed, we are having an assembly this morning." He waited for the ripple of laughter that ran through the crowd to die down before continuing. "We, as a school, are extremely lucky to have this speaker coming to talk to us today…"

As Mr. Bray droned on, Alex's eyes continued to dart around the room, taking in and cataloguing the minute changes each time a student or teacher moved—and then he froze. All of the tension that had relaxed from his body returned full force, as he took in the figures in black that had silently appeared at each door, blocking the exits. He, and the rest of his utterly defenseless school, was trapped in the auditorium. Polite applause jolted him from his thoughts. Mr. Bray was stepping down from the stage, and another figure was exiting the wings and taking his place—a man he had hoped to never see again in his (undeniably short) lifetime.


	2. A Lecture on Human Biology

A/N: This is the RE-UPLOADED version of chapter two - I realized that the old chapter was not exactly where I wanted to go with this story, so it's been replaced! Thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed, and favorited - you made my day (or 'days,' I guess - it's been a while). Disclaimer: Last I heard, I wasn't Anthony Horowitz. Please let me know if that's changed.

* * *

Alex froze as the familiar face of Dr. Three—the world's leading expert on torture and the cause of many of the scars on Alex's body—came into view. Suddenly, it all made sense—the awful feeling of dread that had manifested in the pit of his stomach, the assembly on 'human biology,' the goons in black guarding the exits of the auditorium—Scorpia was back. And they were out for revenge.

It had taken a mere second for Alex to realize this, and he instantly sprung into action.

"Tom!" he hissed.

"Al? What is it?"

"Tom…that's Dr. Three."

Tom's eyes widened dramatically, and he gulped. "Three? As in, the man who is single-handedly responsible for half the scars on your body because he's tortured you that many times? That Dr. Three?"

Alex nodded, a sardonic smile on his lips. "Tom, do you know of any other Dr. Three I've told you about?"

The other boy shook his head. "So should I…you know…" he gestured to the calculator in his hand.

Alex nodded, sliding out of his chair and to the floor, making no noise as he fell into a crouch.

"Send the message, Tom. Goons at each door, blocking all the exits. Tell Jones—" he hesitated, wondering whether he should share this bit of information, then deciding it was better that his boss know what she was up against. "Tell Jones it's Scorpia."

Tom nodded, already typing away. Then he looked up at Alex, his eyes worried.

"Be careful, Al."

The spy smiled at his friend. "I always am."

And then he was off like a shadow, moving across the back of the auditorium until he reached the aisle directly facing the stage, just as Dr. Three began to speak.

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen. My name, as Mr. Bray has already told you, is Dr. Chen, and I am here to give a lecture on human biology. I—"

About to continue his lecture, he was interrupted by a derisive snort from the back of the theatre.

"'Human biology?' Is that what they're calling it now?"

Alex picked his way down the aisle, ignoring the calls of 'what d'you think you're doing, druggie?' and 'sit down, Mr. Rider!' from the students and teachers seated around him. One even went so far as to try to grab his arm, but he shrugged the person off.

At last, he reached the stage, leaping onto the wooden surface lightly, his feet making no sound as he landed on the wooden planks beside Dr. Three. His eyes never left those of the man on the stage, until he heard a voice from behind him. One of his teachers, the ever-interfering Ms. Quimby, had followed him as he made his way to the stage. Alex sighed internally as she began to speak.

"I'm terribly sorry, he's a very troubled boy—come down this instant, Mr. Rider! I really must apologize—"

But she was interrupted by the smooth voice of Dr. Three. "That won't be necessary, Miss…?"

The woman blushed. "Quimby, sir."

Three smiled at her. "Ah. Miss Quimby. As I was saying, that won't be necessary—you see, Mr. Rider and I have been…previously acquainted." He turned to the young man beside him, who had been silent throughout the entire exchange. "Where was it last time? Budapest, if I am not mistaken."

The spy nodded. "Excellent music, that time," he said, referring to Three's peculiar habit of playing classical music while he tortured Alex.

"Ah, yes! I decided a bit of Berlioz would be perfect for the occasion," Three replied, an easygoing smile on his face.

"Berlioz…what was it, Symphonie Fantastique?" Alex asked, brow furrowed slightly.

"No, the Hungarian March—Marche Hongroise, rather."

"Fitting," Alex commented.

"Yes, I thought so. I did so love hearing you scream…" Three tilted his head wistfully, ignoring the sudden silence of the auditorium.

Alex, seemingly unbothered by the closeness with which his schoolmates and teachers were now following their conversation, nodded.

"Yes, that time _was_ particularly brutal…five bullets, really, Doctor? A bit much, don't you think? And then your signature…" He raised his right arm, tilting it so that his wrist faced the man beside him, the three parallel scars clearly visible against the pale skin of his arm.

The man smiled at him, a hint of malice in his eyes. "What can I say? I'm a man of tradition. After all—"

But Three didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, for Ms. Quimby had already poked her (in Alex's opinion) abnormally large nose into the conversation.

"What in tarnation is going on here, Mr. Rider? How do you and Dr. Chen know each other? And what, pray tell, is the meaning of those scars on your wrist?"

Alex had to hand it to her—the woman had guts, interrupting two of the most dangerous people in the world. Then again, she hadn't _known_ that they were dangerous…his train of thought was cut off by the sound of Ms. Quimby clearing her throat.

"Well?" The woman raised a single grey eyebrow.

Alex sighed. "First of all, his name isn't Dr. Chen—it's Dr. Three."

"Three—"

Alex cut her off. "Second of all, as the 'good doctor' has already mentioned, we've been previously acquainted. Under what circumstances, I'm not at liberty to say. About the scars, I have one thing to say to you— _none of your damn business_. Anything else?"

By the time he had finished, the woman was gaping at him, open-mouthed, rendered speechless by his apparent lack of respect.

Three placed a hand on the woman's shoulder, smiling benevolently at the spy. "Now, now, Mr. Rider. Is that anyway to talk to your teacher?"

His hand tightened briefly on the woman's shoulder, a clear warning in his dark eyes – watch yourself, or I hurt her. Alex felt himself grow icy with anger.

"Let her go, Three." His voice was cold, emotionless—it was his spy voice. "It's not her you want."

"Rider—" Ms. Quimby appeared to have found her voice at last, but Alex didn't give her the chance to speak.

"Ms. Quimby, I suggest you sit down in your seat. Now." Though phrased as a suggestion, the order was clear in his voice, and the woman nodded, cowed, scurrying off to her abandoned chair. Alex turned his attention to Dr. Three.

"Three—let me tell you what you're going to do," Alex continued. "You're going to order you goons to step down from their positions at the doors—did you honestly think I wouldn't see them? And then you're going to sit down in that chair and not move until MI6 get here, after which you will turn yourself over to them. Sound good?"

Alex's voice, if possible, was even more detached, with a hint of vehemence that made even the staunchest of students cower in their chairs. But Three didn't even flinch, simply raising an eyebrow at the coldly furious teen before him.

"Alex," he sighed again, "Alex. I'm afraid there's one thing you've forgotten." His razor of a smile was smug and triumphant. "Scorpia never forgives, and Scorpia never forgets. We haven't forgotten you, young Mr. Rider, or what you did to our organization. Which is why I have no intention of—how do you say it? Coming quietly."

Behind him, Alex heard the distinctive sound of the safety of a gun clicking off. He froze, body tense, as a cold metal barrel pressed into the back of his neck. He ignored the sudden screams that came from the civilians in the auditorium as they saw the gun, focusing solely on the movements of the man behind him.

"Hands in the air."

Alex did as he was bid, still managing to retort, "Bit cliché, don't you think? The whole 'hands where I can see them' bit?"

"Turn around," the gunman ordered, the releasing the pressure on Alex's neck ever so slightly…but it was all he needed. Alex spun, lashing out with a powerful kick towards the man's stomach, just as the man pulled the trigger. His foot made contact, and, simultaneously, Alex felt the bullet embed itself in his left shoulder. Wincing, he pushed the pain to the back of his mind, concentrating on the fight at hand.

His opponent wheezed, one hand going to his stomach, and Alex swung his uninjured left arm to the man's head. His blow was countered forcefully, sending spasms through his arm. He grunted, hooking a foot behind his adversary's knees, sending the burly man toppling to the floor. At the last moment, the man shot out a hand, latching onto Alex's ankle and bringing him down with him.

The two rolled around the stage, exchanging blows. Alex felt his strength waning—the man was twice his size, for god's sake! He gathered all of his strength into his right arm and brought it crashing down on the man's temple, effectively rendering him unconscious. Kicking the man's body off of him, Alex stood slowly, assessing his injuries. He picked up his gun from where it had fallen during the fight and lifted it deliberately with his left hand, turning the safety off.

"Goodbye, Three. Consider this revenge for Budapest."

But before he could pull the trigger, twenty-odd men in black swarmed the stage. They yanked the gun from his grip and twisted his arms behind his back. Alex swore beneath his breath. He had forgotten the men who guarded the doors; he was so focused on Three—he had been sloppy, and in his line of work, that would get him killed (instinct and luck could only take him so far). He yelped as his injured shoulder was jerked sharply.

Three smiled vindictively. "Alex. I know you're good—but you can't win against thirty armed Scorpia recruits." Ah, so there were thirty of the men, then. Three moved closer, until Alex could smell the mint on his breath. "Five times, we've met before—and five times, you've escaped. This time will be the last time we meet, my friend—I have no intention of letting you go alive."

"The only way you'll leave this room is in a body bag, Three," Alex snarled.

"And what about your classmates, hmm? Talk to me like that again and you'll be needing another body bag…"

Alex jerked, trying to free himself, and one of the men holding him delivered a sharp blow to his sternum. The spy doubled over, coughing. Raising his face, he spat a mouthful of blood and saliva directly into Three's face.

"You really never learn, do you?" Three sounded genuinely disappointed. "I'm afraid, then, that I must punish you…"

He held out his hand. One of the guards placed a gun in his open palm, and Alex shuddered, knowing what came next…He could not hold in a sharp scream of pain as Three fired a bullet into his right knee, tearing through tissue and muscle. He gasped in pain, his breath hissing through his teeth.

"Well, Rider?" Three's voice was amused, his lips twisting into a smirk. "Will _you_ come quietly, now?"

"Never," Alex growled, his voice raspy with pain.

"Then I suppose I'll just have to convince you…" Three signaled to one of the men holding Alex.

"Yes, sir?" The man let go of the boy, and Alex made his move. He shifted his weight to his unhurt left leg and spun, using his momentum to deliver a sharp blow to the second man holding him. The man went down, a bruise forming on his skull. Alex lowered himself into a familiar fighting stance, adrenaline rushing through his veins. Five men surrounded him almost instantly, and Alex got to work (this was, after all, what he did for a living).

He aimed a jab at the man on his right, his digits making contact with a cluster of nerves in the man's neck and rendering him unconscious. Not stopping to look over his handiwork, Alex moved on to the next man, felling him summarily with a well-placed kick. Not for the first time, he thanked any higher power that existed for the training his uncle had instilled in him, and for the fact that only five or six men could surround him at once.

Alex dealt with the other men who surrounded him just as quickly as he had the first, the bodies piling up around him. He was a whirlwind, here one moment, gone the next, all thoughts of hiding his 'talents' from his school gone as he fought for his life.

At last, only Dr. Three was left. Alex limped toward the older man, trying to ignore the pain that echoed in his very bones as he moved.

"Do you fear me now, Three?" He asked, his voice impassive, though the answer to his question was written on the other man's face.

"I—"

Alex didn't let the doctor finish his sentence, instead promptly jabbing pressure points in Three's neck. The older man fell, paralyzed and unconscious, shock and fear still visible on his features.

Alex sank into a crouch as his adrenaline wore off, grimacing as probed his throbbing right shoulder. His fingers came away wet with blood—his shirt was soaked with the viscous liquid, as was his trouser leg.

He sighed. It was inevitable—he needed first aid, or he would bleed out then and there in the school auditorium in front of a crap ton of civilians. _Civilians…oh god._ Alex got to his feet, blinking away the black spots that threatened to overwhelm his vision.

"Tom…" his voice was weak.

As if his best friends words were the cue he had been waiting for, Tom rushed over to Alex's side, concern lining his face, Alex's bag slung over his shoulder.

Alex put pressure on his shoulder, wincing. "Bag."

The other boy nodded, sliding the heavy black pack onto the stage.

"Thanks, mate."

Alex reached into his bag, ignoring his multitude of weapons (he would take those out later) in favor of his mobile phone. He allowed the phone to recognize his fingerprint, then opened his contacts, selecting the one labeled simply 'the Bank.' Placing the phone to his ear, he waited for the receptionist to pick up.

"Put Jones on," he growled into the phone. "This is Rider."

"Right away, sir." Came the response, and Alex exhaled, making a face as his shoulder pulsed painfully. There was a click as the director of MI6 picked up the phone.

"Alex?"

"Jones." His voice was hoarse with pain.

"Alex! Are you all right? We got your friend's message—" Her tone was laced with worry.

"Then where the hell are you? I've got a bullet in my shoulder and one in my knee—" He halted abruptly, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. "Just get over here, Jones. Hurry."

"All right, Alex, I'm coming, but—"

He didn't wait to hear what she had to say, instead hanging up and passing the phone to Tom, who received it wordlessly.

Alex then began to remove items systematically from the depths of his bag, beginning with his weapons, which he left in easy reach. First, he withdrew a set of silver throwing stars (a gift from his partner when he turned sixteen two months ago). After setting the shuriken down carefully, ignoring the sudden shocked gasps as students and teachers caught sight of the deadly blades.

Next to appear from Alex's bag was a long knife, which he twirled absentmindedly for a moment, quickly followed by his second gun, a Browning 9mm that he quickly disassembled, checking its parts, before reassembling it in the blink of an eye. His Sig-Sauer P228was next, bloody from the fight.

At last Alex found what he was looking for—his first aid kit. He removed the large white box, laying it across his knees and removing a length of white bandages, preparing to wrap his bullet wounds, until—

 _Oh crap._ He would have to remove his shirt in order to stop himself bleeding to death before MI6 got here (which he knew, from experience, could take hours), revealing the multitude of scars on his body to a mass of civilians. Oh well, it couldn't be helped—he'd rather have his classmates know his secret (which they really already did) than die of blood loss at Brookland.

Flinching slightly as his shoulder pulled, Alex slowly pulled his shirt over his head. Instantly, the theatre fell silent. Even Tom was speechless, staring mutely at the mass of burns, stab wounds, bullet wounds, and all other types of scars that marred his friend's torso, not to mention the hole in his shoulder that was currently bleeding at an alarming rate.

Picking up a rag from his case, Alex began to soak up the blood still amalgamating on his shoulder. As he did so, the murmurs that had halted at the sight of his abused body started up again. Alex sighed, feeling more like an animal in the London zoo than a person beneath the hot stares of the civilians.

"I can hear you, you know."

Instantly, the muttering halted, except for one rather ill-advised teacher (three guesses who!) who seemed unable to keep her mouth shut,

"Rider, I—what the hell happened to you? Was it a gang war? You know, boy, you'll never be able to get yourself a good job at this rate—"

Quimby, for that was who had spoken, fell silent as Alex's cynical laugh cut the air.

"I have a job, Quimby."

"Yes, well, can't be much of one, can it? Probably in some gang, too—"

Alex looked up, eyes flashing even as his shoulder screamed in pain. "For the last time, _I am not in a bloody gang!_ And as for my job—my job just saved all of your miserable lives today."

"That's ridiculous." Quimby snorted, ignoring the glare she was currently receiving from Tom. "What are you, a mechanic in some autobody shop, making five pounds a day? As if _you_ could do anything important— _druggie_."

That was the last straw for Alex. A woman who was supposed to be in a position to help the youth of her country, who was supposed to stand for education of all and to see past discrimination, calling him that hated, _untrue_ name when he had just taken two bullets (burning like fire in his body) to ensure the safety of her and all of the others in the theatre…Alex couldn't take it.

" _Shut up, you worthless waste of space."_ He stood up, leaning on Tom for support as his injured knee protested. "I. Do. Not. Do. Drugs."

Quimby sneered, an ugly expression twisting her face, but Alex cut her off. "I just took two bullets for you and everyone else in this room—two bullets that hurt like _hell_ —and you have the nerve to call me a drug addict? Let me set you straight—all of you," he said, including everyone in the hall (with the exception of Tom) in his next words.

"I am not a drug addict, nor am I a gang member, alcoholic, or any other sort of human scum. It must also be noted, then, that I am not ill, when I disappear from school—I'm at my job, which is not a mechanic at an auto shop, _thank you very much._ "

"Then what are you?" called a student Alex couldn't name.

"Al—" Tom started from beside him, drawing his best friend's attention. "You don't have to tell them, Alex."

"Yes, I do, Tom. Do you think they'll leave me alone, after this? I'll be pulled out of school for another _job_ and the rumours will start up again—Alex Rider, druggie, Alex Rider, gang member—I'm so _sick_ of them, Tom! Like I need another thing to worry about…"

Tom nodded. He understood, having faced gossip when he had come to school with a large slice down his face (he hadn't been able to dodge the knife thrown by his mother hat his father in time) until Alex had…ahem…set the rumour-mongers straight.

"Well, Rider? If you're not any of those things you've described, what are you?" The same student called again.

Alex kept his face blank as he reached inside his trouser pocket to pull out his MI6 ID, carried upon his person at all times.

"Let me re-introduce myself. Alex Rider, Agent of the Special Operations Division of Military Intelligence, Sector Six. Spy."

* * *

So, did you like it? Let me know through a review!

-nrynmrth


	3. All In a Day's Work

A/N: THIS IS THE LAST CHAPTER! I know (or at least, I hope) that some of you would want me to continue this even after this chapter, but I've decided to make Instinct a threeshot. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure how I would have continued this had I not ended it here, so this is the end! That being said, I'm considering turning my love for oneshots into a series of connected ficlets called Intelligence, so keep an eye out. It'll pretty much be about Alex's interactions with other intelligence agencies (hence the name), and I'm really excited to start it!

All right, I'll shut up now, and let you read the last chapter.

* * *

A dead silence in the auditorium followed his words. Alex, painfully aware of the shocked stares of the people in the room, lowered himself down until he was sitting once more on the edge of the stage, withdrawing a needle from his first aid kit and threading it. He then began to stitch his bullet wound closed, hissing as the needle pulled his torn flesh.

"Al…" Tom's voice made the spy look up. "Doesn't that hurt?"

Alex snorted. "I've been through worse. The drugs from Bolivia (from which he had returned only days ago) are helping—usually, I don't have anything to numb the pain. I'll live, Tom."

The young spy focused his gaze on his shoulder once more, completing the stitches just as the door burst open.

Instantly, Alex was on his feet, pointing his gun unflinchingly at the men now standing before him.

"Identification." He growled, heedless of the untreated hole in his knee.

One of the men stepped forward, pulling a badge from his suit jacket and passing it to the spy, who glanced at it for a moment before lowering his gun.

"Was that necessary?" Another man had stepped forward, eyebrow raised at Alex's caution.

"You can never be too careful, Crawley. Look at what happened here," the spy said, indicating the bodies still on the stage and the mass of civilians still huddled in the auditorium. "Oh, and congratulations on the promotion— _Deputy Director_ Crawley."

"Thank you, Agent Rider. I—" Crawley was interrupted by the arrival of his boss (who, coincidentally, was also Alex's boss).

"Alex!" A woman stepped onto the stage, looking calm and put together—to those who didn't know her, at least. Both Crawley and Alex could see the tension in her jaw, the slightly stronger than usual smell of peppermint that surrounded her, and the nearly invisible worry lines that framed her eyes.

"Hello, Jones," Alex returned. "Nice of you to show up. Don't suppose you've got a real medic with you, have you?"

"Oh—of course," the woman said, slightly flustered, waving two men forward.

As the medic treated his knee, the head of MI6 continued. "Alex—we got your friend's message. Scorpia, it seems has not forgotten you."

"I got that much," Alex replied dryly. "I don't suppose there's anything you can do? The death threats and assassination attempts are getting a bit old, you know…"

Jones cracked a brief smile, startling some of her newer agents. "Only you, Alex, would joke about being killed nearly once a month. No, there's nothing we can do. Scorpia is not known for its…ah…willingness to negotiate, shall we say?"

Alex could only snort in response. "And them?" He asked, gesturing to the residents of Brookland Comprehensive (who had been watching the onstage interactions avidly).

"How much have you told them?" Jones asked, matching his raised eyebrow with one of her own.

"Does it matter? They've seen enough…" He trailed off, apprehensive as he saw the glint in her eye. "Oh, no…"

"Paperwork." Jones' eyes were amused as her best agent let out a theatrical groan.

"Just my luck, getting attacked in front of a few thousand civilians…Occupational hazard, I suppose."

Crawley, in a rare display of emotion, chuckled. "You say that about paperwork, and yet when it comes to dodging bullets and fighting crazed billionaires you don't bat an eyelid…must be the Rider insanity."

Alex scoffed. "The Rider insanity? Ridiculous. I'll have you know that all of my insanity, as you so kindly put it, comes from Tom over there. Hi, Tom…"

Alex swayed suddenly, his voice trailing off as blood loss and adrenaline finally caught up to him. "Hey, Jones, you don't think St. Dom's will have a room open for me now, do you?" He asked, his voice slightly slurred.

"I'm sure it will, Rider—they probably have a room with your name on it. God knows you get hurt enough…" She yelped as Alex rocked on his feet, gingerly placing an arm around his shoulders and steadying him. "Don't bleed on me, Rider," she ordered, but her agents and the rest of the school realized that she made no move to let him go.

"Um, Miss…" Tom spoke up, his voice timid (and so far removed from the crazy and fun-loving Tom of norm that Alex nearly raised his head to stare at the boy incredulously). "He'll be all right, won't he? I mean…"

Jones smiled again, and her agents nearly fainted (really, what was it with Rider and messing with the heads' behavior?). "Of course—Tom, was it?" She waited for the boy's nod before continuing. "He'll be fine. Injuries weren't life-threatening, and he's survived worse—"

Alex's wobbly "Don't you dare tell him about my bullet wound, Tulip," cut her off mid-sentence, and the head of MI6 sniffed at the use of her first name.

"And, Tom?" The boy in question raised an eyebrow at his best friend. "I'll be fine. It is, after all, just another day in the life of Alex Rider…Don't worry about me. I'll be back soon, unless I die a painful death by paperwork—" Tom grinned outright at his friend's attempt at humor, knowing his best friend would be okay (if Alex could crack a joke, there was nothing seriously wrong with him). "—and have fun dealing with the rest of the school, seeing as how you're the only one who knows anything about me in relation to the bank. We'll send an agent over in a couple hours with the necessary paperwork for them to fill out, but until then…"

And then Alex and the rest of the MI6 agents, including the heads, beat a hasty retreat.

Tom was left staring at a swinging door (damn, he hadn't known that many people could _move_ so fast) and a theatre filled with curious people, all of whom would look to him for answers…He could only manage one thought before the barrage of questions began.

 _Oh crap…_

Well, maybe two thoughts

 _Damn you, Alex Rider…_

* * *

Fin! That's it, and I know it was short, but I hope y'all are satisfied by the ending (god only knows it took me long enough to write). Let me know what you think!

Love,

-nrynmrth


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